


My Body

by charlottepriestly



Series: Music Of The Heart [5]
Category: The Devil Wears Prada (2006)
Genre: Angsty too, F/F, Miranda is a useless gay, Miranda's POV, kind of slow burn, not toooo bad though, she sorta struggles with internalised homophobia?, there's gotta be a happy ending after all
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-04
Updated: 2019-11-04
Packaged: 2021-01-15 10:02:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21251582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charlottepriestly/pseuds/charlottepriestly
Summary: I cannot feel this way for her. I try to force her out of my mind, but my body makes sure she doesn't stay away for long.No matter how much I try, I simply cannot forget Andrea Sachs.





	My Body

**Author's Note:**

> So this has been a bit of a challenge to write, I really hope it turned out okay! Please let me know what you think, your comments keep me going x
> 
> Song: My Body by Lemin  
https://youtu.be/cNdnYrreAM8

_I never think about you,_

_But my body does,_

_And it tells me about you._

_Reminds me everywhere you've been,_

_And everything you've done._

She finds me in my suite, curled in upon myself on the sofa, miserable and desolate.

My robe offers little comfort, and my face is painfully bare. I hate how vulnerable I feel when her eyes find me. She freezes, and I can see the conflict raging in her mind. The smart thing to do would be to turn around and leave me here.

But she does not.

She approaches, tentatively, and I do my best to not move at all. I barely even breathe. I merely watch, stone-faced, as she lowers herself onto the armchair in front of me. Her doe eyes are so soft and kind that I feel a sharp throb in my chest.

"Miranda?" She asks, her voice only a whisper, but the concern sounds so clearly that I have to swallow a sudden bout of anger. I don't want her pity. I hate her for even offering it to me.

"You need to change the seating chart." My voice is sharp, emotionless, and for a moment I marvel at my own ability to control myself even in moments like these. "Move Snoop Dogg to my table. Or Rihanna, I don't care either way. And don't bother going to the airport tomorrow."

She blinks as if she does not comprehend the simple tasks I'm giving her, before she manages to shake herself. An elegant hand reaches into her bag and withdraws her planner.

"Oh," she says dumbly, scribbling something down. "So I don't have to fetch Stephen at noon?"

I can't look at her anymore.

"Not unless he changes his mind about the divorce. But you're very _fetching_, perhaps he'll listen to reason if it comes from you."

Out of the corner of my eye, I see her head snap up to look at me. I fight back a grimace as her sharp, dark eyes watch me unblinkingly, and I have no doubt that ridiculous sympathetic gaze is back on her face.

God, how I want to sink into the floor and disappear for a week. Maybe two.

"Miranda," she says, and something in her voice makes my eyes unwillingly rise to meet hers. "I'm so sorry."

And that's all it takes. Suddenly, words are spilling from my mouth. Words that I had no intention of sharing. I sit there, helpless, listening to my voice as if from a distance. As if I'm underwater and everything sounds muffled and wrong.

"He didn't even have the courage to tell me in person. But, honestly? I don't care. I don't care about him at all. I don't even care about what they'll write about me. The press can drag my name through the mud, call me as many insulting monikers as they want if they wish to waste their pitiful, meaningless time doing so. But my girls," I watch, horrified, as tears begin to blur my vision, and I'm unable to suppress the way my voice breaks. "It's not fair. They deserve so much better. I wish I - "

I can't even finish the sentence. What, exactly, do I wish? To be a better mother? A better wife? To live a life where my every move is not monitored by those vultures from Page Six? To be free from it all?

I am so lost in my own thoughts that I don't even realise Andrea is moving. I blink, and then she's there, next to me, sitting so close I can smell her perfume. Has she always smelled so sweet? Like vanilla and jasmine.

"They're strong girls," she says soothingly, as if I don't already know this. "Everything will be okay."

And then she has the gall to reach out and hold my hand, without even so much as seeking permission. Nobody has done this before. Nobody has touched me like this, braving the wrath of the dragon for breaking one of the most important rules.

And yet, I let her. Her skin is soft. Her touch warms my cold hand, and I don't have the strength to do anything about it.

As if realising this, she takes my other hand in hers, and cups them in her own. "Your hands are cold," she says, moving closer to me.

But I don't feel cold at all. Rather the opposite. She's so close now that I feel the heat radiating from her body, her breath upon my cheek.

"Miranda," she says, and then my mind shuts off completely.

She is kissing me.

She is kissing me, and her lips touch mine so gently that I barely feel it at first. But it's definitely there - her tentative brush of lips against mine, afraid but reluctant to move away.

A shuddering breath escapes me, and for some unfathomable reason my fingers squeeze hers briefly. And that is all she needs.

She presses against me more firmly, but still delicately, and all I can think of is how _soft_ she is. Smooth. Nothing like any kiss I've ever received before. It makes my whole body feel like it's burning in flames. My skin feels far too hot, and my heart is thundering so loudly in my ears that I barely hear the relieved hum she lets out when she realises I am not pushing her away.

One of her hands reaches up between us and touches my cheek. I shudder, marvelling at the simple touch, wondering how on earth she is doing this to me. I have never reacted like this to anyone before. Her palm tenderly cups my jaw, and her thumb slowly strokes over my cheekbone just as her tongue sensuously swipes against my lower lip.

My body gives into her. And if I thought my skin felt hot before, it is nothing compared to how I feel when her tongue strokes against mine. She is painfully slow in her ministrations, as if she's savouring every second, every sensation. As if we have all the time in the world.

I can't keep my hands to myself any longer. I reach up and run my trembling fingers through her hair. It's soft like silk between my fingertips. Her own hand has wrapped around my waist, pulling me closer. The heat of her palm burns through my robe, scorching the skin underneath, and I feel the overwhelming need for her to touch me directly. To be flush against her body, and feel how soft she is everywhere else.

Her hand wanders, trailing up my side, cupping my hip, caressing the dip of my waist, counting my ribs. She reaches behind me and - _Oh, God_ \- scratches lightly at the sensitive skin at the nape of my neck, delicately running her fingers through my hair as if the gesture itself is a form of worship.

Her lips move away from mine and I gasp for air as I try to catch my breath. My eyes fall shut in bliss as she starts trailing kisses over the sharp line of my jaw and down the side of my neck. My body trembles when her tongue touches me just behind my ear. My thighs clench when she suckles on my pulse point, fluttering wildly beneath her touch.

I'm panting now. I can hear it - the sound is the only one filling the room, harsh and desperate. She pulls me even closer, and I hear her breath hitch the moment our bodies touch.

We fit so perfectly together. Her chest presses against mine, the feeling of her breasts making my breath leave me all at once.

Her hands are everywhere. Her lips have found their way down to my shoulder, and she pushes my gown aside to swipe her tongue at the hollow of my collarbone. My fingers clench, and only then do I realise that I'm holding her head to me, wantonly scratching at her scalp, arching my back to offer more of myself to her.

"Miranda," she moans against my skin.

My eyes snap open. My body stiffens.

What am I doing?

_Dear God, what am I doing?_

This cannot be happening.

This _cannot_ happen.

I push her away so violently that she nearly falls off the sofa. I jump up and step away from her, putting distance between us, clutching my robe to my chest and clenching my fist to better ignore the trembling of my fingers. It's a struggle to breathe, but now for a different reason entirely.

How did I let this happen?

She is sprawled on her back, her face pale and shocked, her eyes wide with terror as she looks up at me. I can't even imagine what my own face looks like.

I turn on my heel, feeling like a bucket of ice cold water has been poured over my head.

"Leave." My voice is rough, quiet. So much so that I think she may not even have heard me, given that she has made no move to go. After a heartbeat, I tilt my head.

_"Get. Out."_

That seems to get through to her. I continue to face the balcony, listening to the sounds of her scrambling to get up, grab her things, and run.

The door slams loudly behind her, and I let out a trembling breath, trying to pull myself together and drown the overwhelming feelings stabbing their way up my chest.

The next day, Andrea leaves me.

I try to tell myself that it's for the best. That I should be relieved I succeeded in pushing her away.

But the pain in my chest remains, and that night I don't sleep at all.

_I'm happy I'm without you,_

_But my body's not,_

_So it tells me about you._

_When you pop into my mind,_

_I know my body's won._

I know I'm being impossible.

Everyone at Elias-Clarke does everything in their power to stay away from me, even more so than usual. People run for cover whenever they see me stalking anywhere near their vicinity. My employees are so terrified they hardly manage to speak in coherent sentences. It has only been two weeks since we returned from Paris, and already eight people have quit, ten have been fired, and not a single second assistant has lasted more than two days. I can see Emily losing her mind. I have never seen the girl so on the brink of jumping from the tallest window.

Even Irv has been avoiding me, but that is most likely due to his failed coup-d'état and his bruised ego. Nigel himself has hardly spoken to me, but I suppose that's understandable. I'm sure he's licking his wounds, and he has to be away from the inflictor of said wounds in order to heal.

And then there's my girls. My darling babies. I know they're acting out because they are disappointed in me. Mercifully, they were not particularly unhappy about Stephen's sudden absence from their lives. But they're angry at the press, and at my ridiculous work schedule, and my inability to keep anyone in our lives. Caroline is still throwing a tantrum every other day, and Cassidy still has that blank look on her face, that sadness and contempt clouding her eyes every time she looks at me. It pains me more than I can bear.

It has not escaped my notice that I am completely alone now. Every person I held close to my heart, everyone I trusted has turned away from me. And even though I know I deserve it, it does not make it any less painful. Or lonely.

There is also an empty desk just outside my office.

Every time Emily finds some _girl_ to sit there, it looks completely wrong. I lift my gaze to call out to Andrea, only to be smacked in the face with a twenty-year-old blonde stupidly sitting in Andrea's place. This has happened many times, especially the first week after my return. I am embarrassed by the amount of times I had to choke on Andrea's name, feeling it slice up my throat before I remembered myself.

I can hear the whispers, too. My staff are wondering what exactly happened in Paris. They try to figure out why I did not raise hell when my assistant deserted me in the middle of the most important week of the year. They wonder why I didn't black-list her, and why, oh, _why_ I gave her a letter of recommendation at all.

I wish I had the answers to those questions myself.

I let out a frustrated huff. I can't believe I'm dwelling on _her_ again. She left, didn't she? She made her choice. She abandoned me. Left me high and dry after my husband divorced me, after my position - the throne I have been working for more time than she has been alive - was nearly taken from me. She tucked tail and ran, even after what she did to me in my suite the night before.

I can feel my body thrum with something I can't identify just at the thought of what happened.

_Enough_.

I clench my jaw and set my shoulders back. I have had enough. I will not spare a single thought for Andr - for _her_, again. I will not allow myself to.

Letting out a sharp breath, I lean over my desk once more to continue my corrections on the Book.

After all, no one else can do what I do.

_My fingers talk about your hands,_

_My mouth tells me about your lips,_

_My silhouette just won't stop talking_

_About your fingers on my hips._

_It's so loud._

Four months and two weeks since Paris, I see her again at a charity event. 

The moment my eyes spot her, I freeze.

I find her all the way across the crowded room, her chocolate hair falling in waves over her shoulders. The green dress she has chosen is out of season and nearly a size too big for her. And even though the colour does not go too well with her skin tone, she still somehow looks beautiful.

She is interviewing the high-society attendees, scribbling away on her notebook and talking animatedly to everyone she approaches. She is smiling brightly, her dark eyes lively and attentive.

I'm having some trouble breathing. Like suddenly there is not enough oxygen in the room.

It takes a ridiculous amount of effort to tear my eyes away from her, and bring my focus back to the tepid conversation some businessman has decided to bore me with. I nod and hum at all the right times, and do everything in my power to keep my eyes from wandering to find her again.

I will not let myself fall into this trap. I will not allow her to have this power over me.

I excuse myself from the conversation before turning to snap at Emily, "I'm leaving now. My car better be outside."

Her eyes widen before she can control her expression, and she immediately grabs her phone. I turn on my heel and stalk towards the exit. I force my eyes to stay focused on my path, clenching my jaw when I feel the urge to catch one last glimpse of her.

Every step I take away from her, I feel the tell-tale knife slicing my chest open. Except this time, it is accompanied by the unsettling sensation of two doe eyes burning into my back.

_So I won't listen to my body,_

_Not this time._

_And just by ignoring my body,_

_I'll be fine._

The universe must be playing some kind of cruel, sick joke on me.

There is no other explanation for the _ridiculous amount of times_ I have seen her in the past three months. I have no idea why, but she is at so many of the same events as me that I doubt it's mere coincidence.

On some occasions, I have given in and bought a copy of _The Mirror_ just to see how her career is going. She writes all sorts of articles, not just the ones about New York society, so there is no reasonable explanation as to _why_ the girl keeps appearing. Galas, charity events, formal balls, press release functions, art gallery openings... And every time she's in attendance, she never escapes my notice. Nor I hers.

She has become increasingly less subtle recently. I have sensed her looking at me for long periods of time, more than once. I, of course, don't look back. I refuse to make eye contact. I refuse to acknowledge her presence in any way. No, I am keeping my distance, even if I have to avoid her like the plague.

Even if I feel like I am slowly losing my sanity.

I sometimes feel like I'm living the life of somebody else. Even though the press have finally let down in their stalking and constant attacks upon my person, even though my children have finally started to come around, even though I finally feel at home in my own house now that Stephen is gone, the constant feeling of emptiness and heart-ache still consume my chest from the inside out. I can just barely concentrate on work. I can hardly sleep, and the dark circles under my eyes are getting more and more difficult to hide.

It's always at night when she drifts into my mind. I keep busy during the day, my mind rushing too much to stop and think of her. But when I am alone, when everything gets quiet, this is when I am most vulnerable. I toss and turn in bed, trying to keep her away. Trying to go to sleep without remembering what her smile looks like, the taste of her lips, the softness of her skin. So many times I have woken up in a sweat, heart in my throat and arousal coiling in my abdomen, and I just _know_ she has been plaguing my dreams once again. They bring with them phantom sesations. I can almost feel the ghost of her lips upon my neck, hear her voice moaning my name.

It is ridiculous. No, it is _pathetic_.

I do not - _cannot_ have feelings for a _woman_ half my age. I'm merely going through some mid-life crisis. It will pass soon. All I have to do in the meantime is keep her out of my damn mind, even when the stillness of the night makes it almost impossible. And most importantly, I am going to keep my distance at all costs.

Although, I am ashamed to admit, I sometimes can't help but catch a glimpse of her whenever she appears at one of my events. It's infuriating, and wrong, and _weak. _But despite my willpower, my body sometimes goes against my own mind. It betrays me, as it so often does when it comes to her.

So even though I have looked at her, marvelled at her beauty, hated myself for it, I would never approach her. Never let her catch me looking.

It would be fatal.

_I'm never aching for you,_

_But my body is,_

_And it feels pain for you_

_On all the parts you used to kiss,_

_The spots you used to touch._

I don't know how much longer I can do this.

I am exhausted, all the time. I am constantly at war with my own body. I have to relentlessly push away my thoughts, my feelings, just to keep some amount of sanity. My dreams are becoming so much more intense, so much more vivid, and now I am cursed with _remembering them_, in detail, so that I am tormented in my waking hours too. It feels like I'm crawling on my hands and knees, dragging myself along, going with the daily motions as if in a sleep-walk state.

How did this happen to me? How has my life turned to this?

Oh, God, she's here.

There is no escaping her, is there?

I sip my champagne, fighting the urge to down the whole flute. I try my best to look around and keep my eyes trained on anything except for her.

I mostly succeed in doing so. I have actually become quite good at this - controlling my eyes, even when I cannot seem to control the rest of me.

Except I hear her laughter, louder and more natural than is usually custom of events like these, and my body once again disobeys me. I find her in the crowd, and my breath catches in my throat.

She has her head thrown back, a bubble of melodious laughter escaping her perfect lips, her eyes squinting shut and her luminous hair flowing with the mirthful toss of her head. She is wearing red tonight. But - Oh, _God_, she is not wearing just red.

She's wearing _Prada_.

And not just any piece. She's wearing a vibrant, floor-length gown with a low cut back that shows a tantalising amount of skin. I am hypnotised by the curve of her back, the dip of her waist, the flex of her muscles as she moves. It fits her like a glove, like a second skin. I can hardly draw breath.

I don't need to see the front to know what it looks like. This particular piece was a favourite of mine from last spring, and I know it in perfect detail. The high collar at the front that wraps around the neck provocatively; the tight, glistening bodice that does not allow a single stitch of bra; the way the fabric hugs the body until it reaches the hips, and then continues to fall and flow like air onto the floor.

I cannot believe she is wearing this. If she so much as turns around, I don't know what I'll do, I don't know what I'll -

Oh, Lucifer help me.

It looks better on her than on any model I have ever seen. Her curves fill the dress so deliciously that I feel my mouth water at the sight. Her lips are painted a sinful red to match the gown, and her make up is flawless, all dark eyes and cheekbones.

She is beautiful.

I am frozen in place, unable to move. I have no notion of anything that is happening around me. I can't take my eyes off her.

And then she sees me.

She is looking straight at me, unabashedly. Her brown eyes look dark and warm like firewood. Her posture is proud and confident, and she tilts her chin up in defiance. Of _me_. I cannot believe her. How can she waltz in here, looking like _that_, and then look at me in such a way, as if challenging me, as if seeing right through me? 

She starts to move, and it takes me only seconds to realise she is walking towards me.

This can't be happening. I cannot possibly talk to her. Not after everything, not after _leaving_ _me_, after tormenting me the way she has. I look around, trying to find the nearest exit. To my dismay, the only exit is behind her, and she is nearly in front of me already. She has cornered me, and she knows it. The way she's moving, the sway of her hips as she saunters towards me, the dangerous glint in her eye. For the first time in my life, I am not the huntress. I am the prey.

"Hello, Miranda," she says, and my eyelids nearly flutter at the sound of her voice.

Now that I am seeing her up close, it is difficult to form words. She is even more magnificent now, and for some unfathomable reason my mind is memorising as many details as it can. The curl of her lips, the way her hair falls, her dark eyes looking so intently into mine.

"Andrea," I manage to drawl, although I still feel light-headed.

"How are you?" She smiles, and I am taken back to the days when she would offer me that honest, disarming smile every single day. The purest of gifts.

"I'm fine, of course," I say, and internally cringe at how forced it sounds, even to my own ears. By the twitch of Andrea's right eyebrow, I can tell she has trouble believing the words. I swallow thickly. "And you? Enjoying wasting your time at that boring little rag of yours?"

Her face darkens at my acerbic tone, but I can't do anything else. It's like I'm on autopilot, unable to control my own responses.

"I am, actually. It's far better than fetching coffees and scarves all day," she deadpans, and I am taken aback. My, she has grown a backbone.

I raise my eyebrow at her disdainfully and sneer, "I suppose that depends on whom you ask."

She smirks, as if honing in on a misstep on my part. I brace myself.

"Well, _you_ asked _me_, so that's my take. I'm sure a million girls would disagree."

_Why, the little -_

"Miranda, I really just came by to say hello, not to start an argument with you," She sighs, as if _I've_ been the insolent one. "I wanted to say thank you, for my letter of recommendation. I really am happy, and it wouldn't have happened if it weren't for you, so thank you. And I also wanted to apologise. For leaving the way I did. It was unprofessional and immature. You didn't deserve it, and I'm sorry."

I am struck speechless. My mind is fighting to catch up with everything she just said. I cannot believe she just completely pulled the carpet from under my feet.

I continue to stare at her, unable to form words, unable to stop looking as if she just struck a blow to my stomach. She can obviously see that she will get no response, so she smiles and turns away. But before I can feel truly crestfallen, before I can prepare myself for the pain of watching her walk away from me again, she turns back and steps closer. My breath catches, and then leaves me all at once.

"Oh," she says offhandedly, and leans forward with a delighted grin, as if about to share a secret. "And I really loved the last issue of Runway. I thought the Chanel spread was a dream."

And then she leaves without a backward glance.

_My body, begging for you,_

_Sends signals to my brain for you_

_As soon as I begin to think_

_That I don't miss you much._

I ache for her.

I have finally admitted this to myself. Shamefully and reluctantly, but I cannot deny it any longer. It is an inescapable, suffocating truth, but the truth nonetheless. 

I cannot stop thinking about our encounter. It's been two weeks since then, but I have replayed the conversation so many times in my head that I think I'm losing my mind. The way she spoke to me, her confidence, her challenge. Her honesty. She seemed so... aware of her power over me.

That's the most unsettling thing of all. It wasn't her cockiness, or her taunting, or her raw truthfulness. It was the fact that I could see it in her eyes, glinting like an ominous full moon.

She _knows_ me.

She knows my weaknesses, and how much she affects me. She could see it on my face, in the way I spoke to her. She knows her power over me from that moment in Paris when her lips tore down all my defences and melted my body into a wanton lava of lust.

I have stopped attending most events I'm invited to. I only go if it is absolutely necessary, or if Irv deems my presence a mandatory waste of my time. I am grateful for the reprieve I've found in not seeing her since we spoke.

Even though there hasn't been a day that I haven't thought of her.

I hope she isn't here tonight. If I were religious at all, I would even _pray_. The universe must show some mercy, mustn't it? I'm not _that_ cruel that I deserve to be put through any more of this nonsense, am I?

But of course, it is too much to ask for.

She finds me outside in the large, deserted balcony. I am smoking a secret cigarette, and I immediately know when she is standing behind me. The hairs at the back of my neck stand on end, and my whole body tenses up as if ready to flee. I let out a sharp breath, the smoke twirling out in a cloud of grey and disappearing into the night sky.

She comes to stand beside me, leaning against the marble railing and gazing up at the full moon.

"I didn't know you smoke," she says casually by way of greeting, and my jaw clenches.

"I don't," I say, and take a slow drag.

"Hmm," she hums thoughtfully, and turns fully towards me. "So is that your first one?"

I roll my eyes. "No. I only indulge very occasionally, when I require it."

I don't know why I'm explaining myself to her, of all people, but for some reason I can't stop myself.

"And what made you require this one? Tough day at the office?"

That makes me chuckle, although it sounds mirthless and desolate even to my own ears. What a miserable sound. It makes her furrow her brow and look at me closely, but I keep my gaze firmly on the garden bellow.

"Are you okay, Miranda?"

I am taken aback by how soft her voice is, and when I slowly turn to look at her, the concern in her eyes makes me swallow reflexively. I blink at her, feeling lost and fragile all of a sudden. How does she do this to me? Why do I always unwillingly find myself being vulnerable in front of _her_? The ache in my chest deepens. I take a long drag of cigarette. Shakily exhaling a puff of smoke, I resume looking out into the landscape. I do not answer her question.

We stand in silence for a long moment, and I do my best not to feel uneasy or restless. I never feel that way, and this scrap of a girl will not bring out those feelings in me tonight. 

But then I feel her fingertips brush the top of mine. Startled, I look down and watch as she takes the cigarette from me. My hand feels oddly warm after her brief touch. I look up at her, incredulous. She brings the cigarette to her mouth, places it delicately between full lips, and takes a long, smooth inhale. I am mesmerised by the action, awed by her bravery to make such a bold move, and _God_, I can't take my eyes away from her mouth.

She watches me watch her, her thoughtful dark eyes never leaving my face. When her lips part to release the cigarette, there is a perfect red imprint on it from her lipstick, and my heart squeezes painfully. She lets out a long billow of smoke, and it serves to shake me out of whatever trance I have been under.

My eyes flick up to hers, and I immediately force myself to guard my expression, to keep my emotions from showing. But I know it is too late. The glint in her chocolate orbs tells me she has seen straight through me, and I find it hard to breathe. So much so that my lungs burn, as if I'm drowning but fighting for oxygen all the same.

She opens her mouth to speak, and I know that whatever she says next will irreparably break me. Her words will cut through me and slice me open. She will leave me bare and vulnerable, and I cannot let her.

"Why did you leave me in Paris?" I blurt, and then blink in surprise at my own words. I didn't even think before asking - didn't even know how much I've been wanting an answer to that question.

She takes a sharp breath, her composure breaking for a moment before she controls her surprised expression and manages to look calm instead of like a deer caught in headlights. She passes back the cigarette, and I make sure to keep my fingers from touching her skin as I take it back.

"There are a few reasons," she begins, and shrugs. "Mostly I just couldn't bear what you did to Nigel. He's your friend, and he cares about you. I get what happened was all business, but he deserved to know what was going on. And I realised that if you didn't even hesitate to cut him down like that, then I didn't even want to think about what you could do to your replaceable, lowly, fat assistant."

_Oh_.

Well. I try to take a breath, but it catches in my throat. I try to swallow down the painful knot that has gathered there before I take a desperate, sharp drag of the burning cigarette.My lips tingle when I realise my mouth is where her exquisite lips have just been.

"I made it up to him," I finally answer. I will not say that she was irreplaceable. That she was never lowly. And definitely not fat. She offers me a small but kind smile.

"I know," she says. "And he's very happy with the promotion and all the new projects. But, Miranda, I didn't know that at the time. I couldn't keep bending myself backwards and crawling on my knees for someone who would most likely not even hesitate to kick me to the curb and discard me like a worn out pair of heels."

Her words hurt. I cannot believe she thinks I would be so cruel as to 'discard' her that way. I feel anger simmering at the pit of my stomach at her assumptions. But I force myself to take a moment to _listen_, to think about what she is saying. To try to understand.

And I suppose she's right, isn't she? Why _wouldn't_ she think of me like that? What have I ever done to be worthy of he trust? What did I ever do to show her that I'm more than just a selfish, cruel, unfeeling monster?

"And anyways," she continues, and shifts her weight self-consciously. "I couldn't really stay, could I? After what happened..."

My body freezes. Ceases to function. There is a loud buzzing in my ears, and I can feel my heart start to pound in my chest.

"I know why you've been avoiding me," she continues before I can even compose myself. "I know why you didn't blacklist me, and why you gave me a letter of recommendation. I know why - "

"_How dare you_," I hiss. The simmering anger from before has erupted into a huge flaming rage. It's suffocating in its depth, blinding in its thickness. I snarl at her, and I feel some level of gratification when she flinches away from my ire. "How _dare_ you presume to know anything about me? Who do you think you are? You're just some immature _girl_ who runs away from her problems and the harsh realities of life. You are naive and arrogant and _you. Don't. Know. Anything_."

She has turned pale, and she takes a step back as I loom over her. My body is shaking with anger, and I am overwhelmed at my own visceral reaction to her words.

But then she takes a deep breath, straightens her shoulders and lifts her chin in the same way she did two weeks ago.

"Whatever helps you sleep at night," she has the audacity to retort. "But I know better. I know you're just avoiding the truth yourself, because it's inconvenient. I know you're keeping me away because you're afraid of what you might feel if I get too close. And I know that if you keep acting like this, suppressing yourself out of fear, you will never find true happiness."

I cannot speak. I cannot even think. My mind is racing too much, my breathing too short. A gripping cold takes hold of my body, and the pain in my chest sinks down into my abdomen, like heavy, cutting rocks that weigh me down in its excruciating burden. My hands are trembling, and I know the colour has drained from my face.

She barely stays long enough to see what her words have inflicted on me. She shakes her head and looks at me with hurt and anger clouding her expressive eyes. Then she turns on her heel and stalks away back into the ball room. I am left behind in a cloud of her perfume, trying to understand why I feel a stabbing pain as I watch her walk away once more. 

Only now do I manage to pay attention to her dress, and I find myself chocking back a guttural sound that is suspiciously like a sob.

She is wearing cerulean.

_So I won't listen to my body,_

_Not this time._

_And just by ignoring my body,_

_I'll be fine._

I live a constant nightmare after that.

Her words have shaken me to my core. Perhaps because she's right. I _do_ tend to run away from any truths that go against my wishes or my convenience. I _am_ afraid of what she does to me, how she renders me completely powerless, how she has taken control of my body in such a visceral way. And, I admit, she has taken over my mind, too. I don't even recognise myself anymore.

I realise the irony of it all. A fifty-year-old woman who has spent her entire life surrounding herself with feminine beauty, who married two men more out of convenience than love, having a sexual awakening because a slip of a girl half her age - an _ex-assistant_ who _quit_ \- refuses to leave her in peace. It's simply too clichéd. I detest it.

But it does explain a great deal, doesn't it?

Of course Andrea had to point it all out to me in detail, slapping me in the face with the unwanted truth of my feelings. I tried to deny it - to diminish what I was feeling to a mere fluke. Or indigestion. Or lunacy, even. But now that she dropped that bomb on my lap, I can no longer ignore the burst of raging feelings and racing thoughts every time I think of her. And there is one thing she said to me that night that has stuck with me more than anything else she said. It makes it difficult to swallow when I think of it, and a new kind of ache burns between my ribs. 

I can't live like this. I can't be _happy_ like this.

What kind of example am I giving to my daughters? What kind of person am I, that I would chose the path that leads to loneliness, pain, and pretence? Am I really such a coward that I would prefer _that_ to risking my heart for a fulfilling, happy life? This is not like gambling at poker, after all. And who says Andrea even returns my feelings for her, whatever those may be?

She has truly broken me.

And what's worse, she still holds the power and the capacity to break me further. I don't know if I could bear that.

But she kissed me, didn't she? She seemed to want me a great deal back in Paris. And she has returned, has she not? She has approached me, possibly _dressed_ for me, and even tried to speak of what happened between us. Not only that, but she has forced me to _open my eyes_. She took a leap of faith and courageously defied the dragon, tearing the blindfolds I had desperately tied over my own eyes. I feel like she dissected me. As if she cut my chest open, inspected me from the inside out, and then threw it all in my face when I refused to acknowledged that I was rotten. 

There are so many conflicting thoughts about what to do. On the one hand, I desperately want to reach out to her. To tell her she was right, and that I would give anything for a chance to be with her. On the other, her rejection terrifies me so much it makes me panic just thinking of it. If she turns me away, if she rejects me again the way she did in Paris, I will have nothing left, and I doubt I would ever be able to fully recover. 

I suppose the most important question is whether she is worth the risk.

My mind does not even hesitate before declaring a resounding _yes_.

Oh, God, what am I going to tell the girls?

Jeremy might try to take me to court for custody over my babies.

The press would be a circus.

Our careers could be compromised. Irv might try to pull something to have me removed from Runway, and Andrea could be accused of sleeping her way to the top.

Maybe it's not a good idea, after all. Maybe it's just one of those things that are not meant to be.

But just the thought of not trying at all fills me with unrestrained rage. Just the thought of never having the chance to build a relationship with Andrea, to hold her and make her laugh, to receive those heart-warming smiles, makes my throat tighten and my stomach to drop painfully low. I know exactly what my body is saying this time.

I have to try.

And tonight seems like as good a time as any.

It is a charity event at the MET, and a certain Art Director who still keeps in touch with his 'Six' told me she would be here tonight. So of course I spent a ridiculous amount of time preparing for this evening, more than I am willing to admit. I have chosen to send a message in her own code she used a fortnight ago.

I am wearing cerulean.

It is a very flattering gown, if I do say so myself. And according to Cassidy, it brings out my eyes. The bodice is tight, so much so that it's hard to take deep breaths. But the miracles it does with my décolletage is worth it. It is off-the-shoulder, with a deep vee that shows the smooth skin between my breasts and reaches low on my sternum. It is more daring than I would normally wear, but I hope it grabs the attention of a certain ex-employee.

I notice her the moment she steps into the room.

A wave of relief washes over me, followed by a tsunami of anxiety and self-doubt.

But then I see her dress, and I lose my breath altogether.

She is all in black, the dress flowing like silk around her, the long skirt twinkling under the chandeliers with scale-like sequins. The short flutter sleeves leave her sharp collarbones on display, and her cleavage is so low that the world seems to tilt as my eyes take their fill. But when they trail down to her abdomen, I nearly choke.

The only colour in her outfit is the wide golden belt around her waist, which holds together a large gold dragon adorned with saphire gemstones. The creature seems to crawl up towards her breasts, its tail curling down until it almost reaches between her hipbones.

My lungs burn, and I realise I have not been able to draw breath for long, swooning moments.

She has outdone herself tonight.

I watch as she looks around, sweeping the room until her eyes find mine. She stares at me deeply, thoughtfully, and I know she is searching for something. An invitation, perhaps? I take a calming breath, and curl my lips into a faint smile.

A white handkerchief. 

My surrender.

Her answering smile is so bright, so beautiful, that I feel my knees buckle in relief. I don't feel so exhausted anymore.

I watch, hypnotised, as she gracefully makes her way across the room towards me, and we hardly take our eyes off each other, our gazes locked as if in a trance. It takes much longer than I would like for her to reach me, the anticipation and nervousness churning my stomach unpleasantly. When she finally stands before me, my heart is beating so hard that for a moment I fear she will hear it pounding in my chest.

"Andrea," I manage to say, determined to get the first word in despite my body's lack of co-operation and refusal to calm down.

"Hello, Miranda," she says, her eyes warm as they flutter over my face, then slowly trail down my body. I shiver at the way she drinks me in with her eyes. How they linger on my chest and caress my neck. "You look stunning. The dress suits you."

To my dismay, I feel heat rising up the skin she has just perused until colour blooms on my cheeks. She smirks knowingly, and I desperately need to pull myself together.

"Thank you," I respond, and proceed with my own inspection of her delectable outfit. "So do you. But, really, Andrea? A _dragon_?"

She chuckles and shrugs in a manner that is both childish and ridiculously endearing. "I think they're the most magnificent creatures. I may have a slight weakness for them."

She is fully grinning now, her eyes bright and crinkling around the edges, and I can't fight back an amused smile.

"Is that so?" I say, and thank whatever deity is up there that I finally sound like myself again when speaking to this woman. "Would you care to accompany me out into the garden and tell me more about this weakness of yours?"

Instead of answering, she offers me her elbow, a defiant eyebrow raised as she tilts her head towards the large doors only twenty feet away. I roll my eyes half-heartedly, but step up next to her and slip my arm through hers, resting my hand at the crook of her elbow and relishing in the soft skin there.

We silently make our way around the edges of the crowded room, ignoring any curious looks aimed our way. I feel a strange sense of pride and possessiveness at having Andrea on my arm for everyone to see, even though she is not in any way mine. I fight the urge to glare at the nosy onlookers around us, but I subconsciously purse my lips regardless.

The brisk, fresh air feels wonderfully soothing against my heated skin, and I let out a satisfied breath. The half-moon is bright in the clear night sky, lighting the way as we wonder around the subtly-lit garden in a silence that is both comforteable and thick with unspoken thoughts.

We find a secluded corner surrounded by tall trees and bushes. There is a small fountain in the middle, the calming sound of the trickling water loud despite the distant noises of the event and the city around us. I spot a bench tucked away under the branches of a tall tree, and I lead Andrea to it.

I reluctantly pull my arm away from hers in order to sit side by side, and we both take a moment to breathe in the beautiful atmosphere and the building tension between us.

I can't resist any longer, and finally turn to look at her. Her hair is done up into an elegant bun, with tendrils of chocolate curls framing her face. A soft breeze picks up, pushing one of the fine locks across her face. Without thinking, I reach up to brush it back, curling it behind her ear.

She turns to gaze at me, a flash of surprise fleeting through her face before she smiles at the gesture. Then she reaches up to take my hand in hers, and I gasp when she laces her fingers through mine. Her thumb caresses my pulse point, and the simple touch sends shocks all the way up my arm.

"Andrea," I murmur, my voice soft with trepidation. But she is sitting so close to me that I can smell her perfume, and she is _holding my hand. _So I push down my hesitation and force myself to speak as honestly and deeply as I know how. "I owe you an apology." She blinks in surprise, clearly taken aback, but then leans back as if getting comfortable and looks at me with a serious and attentive expression. I take a deep breath. "I am sorry for the way I spoke to you last time. I was cruel, and scared, so I lashed out even though I didn't mean any of what I said. You didn't deserve it. I am also sorry that it took me so long to _understand_. I was too terrified to come to terms with what happened between us in Paris, and I refused to acknowledge the depths of my - my feelings... for you."

This is it, then. I have taken the leap of faith. I have risked it all, and my entire future - my _happiness_ \- hangs by a thread that she can either take firm hold of, or slice apart. Surprisingly, I feel like a weight has been lifted from my shoulders, and I'm left feeling lighter. Strangely calm. The constant, agonising weight that has been writhing in my chest for months has finally eased, and despite the anxiety curling my stomach, I feel freer than I have in a very long time.

"Miranda," she finally says, her voice low and her tone soft. Her large eyes are looking at me full of tenderness, and she reaches up with her free hand to cup my cheek. My own eyes start to sting with unshed emotion, and my breath catches when I finally feel the tender touch I have been longing for.

Her lips are softer than I remembered them. They fit against my own so perfectly that I feel like weeping at the beauty of the moment. I feel as if something has finally fallen into place inside me after months and years and decades of feeling broken. I am healed by her forgiveness, and soothed by her kindness. I come alive in her delicate embrace and the exquisite sound of her voice murmuring my name like it's a benediction. My body and my mind finally find peace, even as I drown in the worship of her lips. I feel a burst of hope for a future filled with joy and love, and I thank whatever higher powers there are that I have found this magnificent creature to cherish for as long as she lets me. I am boundless - an infinite splendour that has finally found its light. As she pulls me closer to her, as I hold her tightly against me, I know one thing for certain.

I do not have to fight my body anymore.


End file.
